


White Blank Pages

by Covenmouse



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Dark, Drama, F/M, Gen, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Racism, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-07-26
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:35:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Covenmouse/pseuds/Covenmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the end of the second war, Draco finds himself adrift with no job, no prospects, and hardly a friend to his name.  When a dark wizard begins to round those few others up who have escaped the aurorer's nets, Draco is once again forced to choose between following, or taking a stance once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Blank Pages

CHAPTER ONE

 

They were married in the fall. It was an outdoor event, where the leaves backing the couple were as red as her hair in the sunlight--as red as all her brothers, and her mother’s, and--well, hell, her whole thrice damned family. She wore white, though the bulge in her belly told the whole wizarding world that that was a lie. Time had not been wasted since the war’s end.

Draco crumpled the newspaper into a ball and lobbed it at the bin. It sunk, and Draco stared out the window. Lucius looked up.

“I had wanted to read that.”

“Why? Same old trash as always.”

“Trash it might be, but we do need to keep an eye on the gossip,” Lucius sniffed. He waved his wand and the newspaper returned to the table, unfolding itself as it did. On the front page, though contorted with wrinkles, Harry and Ginerva Potter grinned at one another, foreheads touching and hands clasped. They’d elected for a muggle-style wedding, which the columnist said was a statement about the changing attitude of the wizarding world. It made Draco nauseous.

Narcissa tapped salt over her boiled egg, and glanced at the paper. “What in Merlin’s name is she wearing?”

“A wedding dress,” Draco answered around a sip of orange juice. His father, who had been skimming the article, glanced at him. A single silver brow arched in accusation, until Draco explained: “I read it, didn’t I?”

Lucious continued to stare long enough that Draco found himself fidgeting in his seat. He looked back out the window.

“Whatever it’s called it’s hideous, and a blight on even her family. She had the intelligence to marry into good blood, and yet couldn’t see herself to wearing proper robes.” Narcissa sniffed. “I simply cannot understand it.”

The paper crackled a little as Lucius folded it open so he could read the inside. “And here’s an announcement for that son of theirs and the mud-blood girl...and that other son of theirs had twins. These people expand exponentially.”

Draco got up and put his napkin beside his plate. Immediately, one of their house-elfs--Rosette, he thought--appeared at his side to whisk away his half-eaten breakfast. “If you’ll excuse me,” he muttered.

He’d made it to the door before his mother asked: “Where are you off to, darling?”

“Meeting Astoria.”

In another moment he had his coat in hand and was standing at the far end of Knockturn Alley. As much as it wasn’t popular to be seen coming out of such a place anymore, Draco didn’t feel quite right about using the Cauldron entrance, or even apparating directly into Diagon. A now-familiar well of bitterness rose in his throat; such things should have felt like his right, as they always used to. He was pure-blooded, wasn’t he?

Were he to tell this to his parents, they’d surely think he’d gone weak. Weaker than he had even since being unable to kill...Draco shook his head. He slipped his coat on and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

November was ending cold and wet, which was rather normal. Even here in the alley, persons scrambled to and from shops with scarves wrapped up to their noses and coats pulled tight. Draco didn’t mind the cold. In part it was due to the heating charm Astoria had woven into his coat, and partly to a willful lack of care.

Marching forth through the broken, dank collection of dark arts shops, most of which now sported boarded up windows and notices of foreclosure, Draco tried not to consider derelict aura of the place. Whereas the Ministry had used to turn a blind eye to Knockturn’s illicit activities, under Shacklebolt’s authority they had ramped up their investigations. It was yet acceptable to own or display such artifacts as could be found here, but the act of selling or purchasing them was not. Lucius had built up several red-faced rants about this and the fact that it was driving many pure-blooded shop owners out of business, but their family was in such bad standing that his words no longer held any sway. Were it not for the family fortune, now supplemented by his late aunt’s coffers, the Malfoy’s may have seen themselves on poverty’s door as stocks plummeted and investments turned sour.

They had to find a new means of business, which wasn’t likely to happen when all three of them were still under investigation in their own right.

Draco turned down a tiny side street which opened up in a back corner of Diagon Alley. The walls were plastered in a hundred wanted posters--no longer the laughing mad face of Sirius Black, but the scowling countenances of the wizard and witches he had grown up around. Family, friends...they glowered at him as though he were the enemy as well.

On the other side, business was on the boom even in this weather. School was still in session, so there was a lack of older children, but persons on break from work were coming to and from Gringotts, rushing through various shops, and generally trying to get things done. A rather busy mother bumped into him as she tried to drag her curious child away from the window display at Weasley’s Wizard Weezes. He sneered at the shop, but the mother must have thought it was directed at her for her eyes widened and she jerked her child along a little more forcefully than necessary.

“I didn’t--”

“My apologies, Mr. Malfoy,” she snapped and hurried away with her whining brood. He could still hear her frantic ranting at the boy, “See what happens when you don’t listen. There are dark wizards everywhere, even now.”

Wincing, he went on his way and ignored the stares at his back.

Several of the shops that had closed during the second war had not reopened. Some had merely changed locations. Ollivander’s, for instance, was now located directly across from Sugarplum’s Sweets Shop. Draco paused at the window to the wand shop.

Ollivander sat at the counter, where he remained from morning till night these days. The old man’s eyesight was going, but his hands were still steady. Several lengths of wood were laid before him on the counter, and he was testing each one with his fingers, turning them over and tapping at them. Draco hadn’t the foggiest clue what these tests accomplished, but he’d long since stopped questioning the old wizard.

A woman came up from the back of the shop. She paused at Ollivander’s side and leaned on the counter. Her red-painted lips drew back in a laughing grin at something Ollivander said, and then those brilliant, dark eyes rose to meet Draco’s. Astoria’s brow furrowed quizzically, and she gestured at him to come in.

The bell tinkled over the door and Draco shut it behind him before too much weather could get in. In another moment his arms were full of peppermint-scented witch. Astoria’s laugh tickled his ear, and she squeezed his shoulders. “What were you doing out there? You’ll catch your death.”

“I thought you might be busy.”

“This isn’t precisely a peak time for us.” Astoria chuckled and took his hand as she lead him back behind the counter.

Ollivander hadn’t looked up, but he gestured at Astoria with a stick of pine.

She took it automatically and hefted it in her hands. “Solid,” Astoria mused, “good scent... perhaps a little heavy. Twelve inch, with a licorice glaze.”

“My granddaughter the artist,” Ollivander said with a hint of a smile. He accepted the back the pine and placed it with the others. “Always for the candy glazes.”

“They’ll be popular next year. I’ve a hunch of it.” Astoria threw him a confident smirk, and shared a laughing look with Draco. He couldn’t help the smile twitching into place over his lips. Leaning onto the counter he took a look at the wood lengths, then at the old man still fondling them.

“There’s been news?”

Ollivander’s gaze rose to him for the first time that day, though Draco still doubted whether the old man could see past his own nose if it weren’t wands he was looking at. Whatever tension there remained between Ollivander and the older Malfoy’s, the wand maker had seemed to forgive Draco as soon as he’d escaped the dungeons. Seemed. Draco tried his hardest to ignore the now-familiar roll of his stomach.

The doorbell jangled.

“What’re you doing here.”

“Good day, Mr. Weasley,” Astoria said over the auror’s ‘greeting.’ She fixed him an entirely un-ironic smile. “What can I help you with?”

Ron’s eyes darted between Draco and Astoria a moment, and finally settled on Draco. He held up the snub end of a wand.

“Oh dear,” said Astoria. She moved around the counter and took it from him, examining the bits. Ron’s knuckles, Draco noted, were scuffed up rather fiercely.

“Resorted to fisticuffs, have you?” Draco slowly lifted one brow in a point-perfect imitation of his father’s signature glower. He knew it was perfect; he’d spent hours practicing in the mirror. “Adorable, really. Your family becomes more and more muggle-like with the passing hour, if your sister’s wedding was any--”

“You leave my sister out this,” Ron snapped.

Astoria threw Draco an admonishing glance, turned, and marched herself behind the counter. “Mr. Weasely,” she said a little more loudly than she was wont, “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you. You can’t keep going through wands like matchsticks.”

“I’m sorry, Astoria,” the man said and had the grace to seem somewhat ashamed. “I try not to, really, but there was this large bloke--Malfoy, you remember Dolohov, don’t you? Right old mate of yours, I’m sure.”

Draco stared at him.

“I know you have a hard job, Mr. Weasley.” Astoria returned with a couple of boxes and laid them upon the table. “And we all appreciate the job you’re doing, but wands do not grow on trees.”

Both young men stared at her, and in the corner her grandfather chuckled. Astoria kept a perfectly straight face as she displayed the wands. Obviously an old hat at this, Ron started with the one she indicated first. They went through six potentials before they found a good match. By that point, one shelf had begun to smoke, an entire row of boxes had spilt upon the floor, and a portion of the floor was raised.

“We really do have to find a better method of testing,” Draco said and eyed a mouse that peeked up through the hole where it’s home had been.

“Have a say in it, do you?” Ron glanced between them again as Astoria was writing down his purchase in the ledger. How on earth she and Ollivander kept that log straight, Draco hadn’t the faintest clue. Their handwriting was matching owl scratch, and there’d be several wands of exactly the same wood, length, and core--yet they always knew exactly which one was which. Their mother, Ollivander’s eldest daughter, had said it was a gift which sprung up often enough through their bloodline. It had skipped over Daphne, who had quit only a day into her internship at the shop.

There was yet a soot-mark over the door from the fire which had preceded her flounce.

“Maybe I do,” Draco drawled in reply. Astoria smirked over her writing, and Draco allowed himself a small smile. Ron eyed them again, and then pulled the money out of his pocket. He left it on the counter and, with a word of thanks to Astoria and Ollivander, turned to leave.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Draco said at his back.

Ron stopped. “For what?” He looked back at Draco, clearly worried, but also curious; he’d always been far too easy to read.

“You’re marrying her, aren’t you?” Draco smirked. “Granger. The mud--”

“Don’t.”

Ollivander’s quiet command was enough to drop the smile from his lips. His eyes locked with Ron’s and a silence settled over the shop. Slowly, but surely, the old wand maker looked up from his work. He’d begun chipping away at a rod of cherry wood at some point in their conversation, but his knife was still now. Ollivander inclined in a slight bow to the aurorer. “Have a good day, Mr. Weasley.”

“Yeah. You too, sir.” Ron hesitated, then glanced at Draco. “No. I’m not.”

The bell signaled his retreat, and Draco let out the breath he’d been holding. Leaning forward, he rested his forehead upon his arms and closed his eyes. Down the counter, the ledger closed. “You’d have deserved that,” said Astoria.

“What?”

Astoria was leaning against the counter when he looked up. She’d crossed her arms over her chest and had a frown etched across her lips. One dark eyebrow quirked. “Why do you provoke him?”

“He started it,” Draco said and stood. He was taller than she, but at the moment he didn’t feel it. “Coming in here like that. It isn’t as if people don’t know we’re...”

“Dating?” She tipped her head to the side. “Most people don’t pay attention to those things outside of school.”

“Not according to the paper.”

Astoria rolled her eyes. “If you keep reading those gossip rags you’ll turn into Rita Skeeter.” She collected the rejected wands and went into the back. Draco followed.

“It’s George and Angelina what’re getting married,” Astoria continued as she put away the boxes. “Which you’d know if you’d really read about it. Where did you hear that Ron and Hermione are--”

“Now who’s the gossip?” Draco leaned against a column that separated some of the back shelves. Astoria glared at him, and he smirked.

“You’re incorrigible.”

Draco took the last of the boxes from her hands and stuck it on the shelf. Before she could protest the misplacement, he took her by the elbow and pulled her to him. Arms about her waist, he kissed her forehead. “Sometimes.”

Astoria chuckled. She relaxed into him and rested her hands upon his chest. “Is that your way of apologizing?”

“Maybe.” Her laughter vibrated beneath his hands, though he could not hear it. Slowly, her arms slipped about him and she laid her cheek upon his shoulder. A peace washed over him like a flood, and he held her just a little tighter.

“I think you should marry me.”

The woman stilled. After a long, excruciating moment, she sighed. “Draco.”

“What? It’d be perfect, you and I. We could expand the shop, hire you some help, maybe. Put your granddad up in comfort--”

“Draco.” Astoria pulled away from him. Those dark eyes, usually so cheerful, stared up at him accusingly. His fists closed. She glanced at his hands, then met his eyes. “No, Draco. And I can’t believe you dared asked me after that.”

“What do you mean? That has nothing to--”

“You’re reacting! The same way you always react. I can usually deal with it, usually, but...not this, Draco. Not about this.”

His mouth moved, but would not say anything. Once again he felt two feet tall, and less significant than an ant. He took one step back, then another. When he passed Ollivander, the old man did not look up.

There was a pub off a section of Knockturn which was still operating, if barely. Their drink was piss, and the music a few decades out of style, but it served well enough to get plastered in. Being who he was, there was always the danger that someone might take offense at his presence there, but he didn’t much feel like being further out of place at the Leaky Cauldron.

Three pints in, he stopped gripping his wand so tightly and leaned back against the booth he’d settled in for the night. From here he had a good view of the other seven persons in the bar: the bartender, a beady-eyed bloke the precise size and shape of a sack of potatoes, three witches commiserating in the far corner, a stick of a wizard hunched over a pint, and a man discussing something with him, whose face was obscured by the stick-man’s over sized nose.

Draco decided to call him Ichabod, though he couldn’t be entirely certain where he’d heard that name. Somehow, it fit.

Ichabod and...and...Draco wracked his sloshed little mind, staring at the shadowed-figure all the while. Lord Shadows. No, obvious. Mr. Darkness. Not any better. Tall, dark, and drunky. Draco began to giggle.

He had the presence of mind to hide his mirth behind his pint, then noticed that it was empty. With a frown at the mug, Draco set it down a little harder than strictly necessary and attempted to whistle. After spitting several times upon the table, he managed an airy approximate and the bartender looked up. So, too, did Ichabod and Lord Sauron.

The door exploded inward.

It didn’t cross his mind that apparating was a very, insanely bad idea until he tried it and was mentally slammed against a proverbial wall. Draco sank forward onto the table, groaning. His head was pounding worse than anything he’d felt in his life, and the screaming and shouting about him only served to make matters worse. So much so, that Draco barely managed a protest when rough hands pulled him up from his seat and marched him out the ruined door.


End file.
